Captives
by Redoran
Summary: The Empire has defeated the Stormcloaks, but when an Imperial patrol crosses into Redguard territory pursuing the remnants of the Stormcloak army, it is seen as an act of war. The fate of the Empire is soon in the hands of nine prisoners of war who must put aside their differences and work together to escape alive. (Hadvar Ralof and Tullius incl. Language and violence)
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:**__First off, I want to tell you that this chapter is the beginning of something potentially quite big. I've rewritten the chapter to make it easier for me to incorporate the twists and events I have planned for later on in the story, and on TheIronStag's feedback. Kind of political, inspired partly by 'A Game of Thrones', but very loosely. Please please PLEASE don't hesitate to leave feedback or contact me, and constructive criticism is more than welcome. I'm actually begging you for it!_

_Thankyou for reading :)_

* * *

"We must show them that raising arms against the Empire means death. Unconditionally." General Tullius said.  
"But general, the rebels are beaten. They flee into the Dragontail mountains – hemmed in by Cyrodiil on one side and High Rock on the other, both Imperial provinces, their only option will be to enter the Alik'r desert." Legate Rikke said.  
"What is your point, Legate?" Tullius asked briskly.  
"She means that the Stormcloaks will roast to death in their furs, and the sun will cook their flesh like mudcrab meat. Trust me sir, the rebels are as good as dead. We've won." Legate Octavian said. He was a gruff soldier with a hard face, in his late thirties, and the best military genius in the fourth legion – excepting the general, obviously.

"Not while a single Stormcloak lives we haven't. I want their heads. I'll stick that godsdamned rebel Ralof's head on a spike, along with the rest of them."  
"Sir, it's just too dangerous. And no doubt they'll have Forsworn guides to lead them through the mountains – you know how little love their people have for the Empire," Octavian said.  
"They have even less for the Nords," Tullius argued.  
"Yes, but desperate times make desperate allies, and King Madanach is unpredictable. I wouldn't be surprised if he throws his lot in with the rebels. If the Stormcloaks hide in the mountains and wait for us to chase, supported by the Forsworn, they'll ambush us and wipe us out, then head straight for Solitude."  
That gave the general pause. He pored over the maps of Hammerfell and Skyrim that had been pushed together, scanning the roads and routes through the Reach and Dragontail mountains with his finger. He followed it up to Solitude, pausing slightly as he went over Dragonbridge. Eventually he shook his head. "We destroyed them at the Battle of Windhelm. Their king-"  
"Jarl, sir," Legate Rikke corrected.  
"Yes, Jarl, king, whatever he is, he's dead. So they'll be disheartened. We stopped their final push at the Battle of Dragonbridge after that, too. Damn it, if only we'd taken Ralof's head there and then!" He slammed his hand on the table. "I will not give up Ralof's body to the deserts of Hammerfell. I want him here as a symbol. I won't let him win, damn it."  
"Sir, let it go. He's gone. The civil war is over." Rikke chimed in – maybe between them both, the two Legates could convince the general otherwise.  
"No. No. We will hunt them down."  
Octavian spoke. "Sir! You forget that the Dragontails are in Hammerfell, and Hammerfell is no longer an Imperial province-"  
"And you forget your place, Legate! I want them dead, and that is an order. Please, Rikke, Octavian – I can't afford to have you against me on this." He sighed heavily. "It's been five years since the Battle of Windhelm, since we killed Ulfric. By the Eight, I thought the war was over then." He rolled the maps up with a sense of finality. "I want those rebels dead so I can give the rule of this backwards province back to Jarl Elisif, and retire in peace. This war has gone on too long already. End it for me."

The Legates shared a pitiful glance. This was the side of the general that no-one else saw. Behind that harsh exterior, ever-strong, ever-powerful, was a tired, ageing man that wanted nothing to do with the war anymore. The usual contortions of stress were carved into his face – the stress of his position that had already turned him grey before he was forty. This job would age him ten years before he was finally granted his retirement. Eventually Octavian saluted. "It will be done, my general."  
"Good... good. And Legate?"  
"Yes, general?"  
"Bring me his head so I can spit on it. Five years he's led me on this chase. I want my revenge."  
"Yes, general." Octavian left the keep.  
Tullius sighed. "Rikke, you're in charge of the keep. I'm going to say my prayers to Julianos, then retire to my quarters for sleep. If anyone asks for me, tell them I'm not to be disturbed."  
"Yes, general." She said bleakly. She could feel it in her gut, chasing the Stormcloaks into Hammerfell was a bad decision. The Redguards would have spies throughout those mountains. Not to mention how dangerous the Stormcloaks would be if they'd managed to convince even a handful of Forsworn skirmishers to join them. _No, have faith in Octavian, _she thought. _He's the best man we've got. He'll pull through._ She just wished she could accompany him.


	2. Chapter 2

"Keep your eyes open and your weapons close, boys. If they have Forsworn with them, our scouts are as good as dead already. And watch for Redguard scouts, too – we don't want any trouble with the King of Hammerfell if we can help it."

The Imperial column snaked between the towering heights of the Dragontail mountains, kicking up a small cloud of sand. Their Imperial leathers were coated in desert dust, and it got in men's boots, in their helmets, in the faces of the men at the back as those in front kicked it up. It got everywhere. Captain Hadvar marched beside Octavian along with the contingent's other captain, captain Quintus Vane, his mouth pursed shut. A Nord's place was in the snow and tundra, not the desert heat, and having to wear the heavy officer's armour wasn't making things any better. His face was red and dripping with sweat, and his hair clung wetly to his face even though he'd long removed his helmet.

"This is madness," he complained.  
"Agreed," Quintus Vane said.  
"Why in Oblivion has the general sent us after them? Surely he knows they've no place to go from here? Excepting Sovngarde, obviously." A man behind snorted laughter at that.  
"Because he wants Jarl Ralof's head," Octavian said sharply. "And I plan to bring it to him."

Hadvar looked at the ground and snarled. He'd come face to face with Ralof at Helgen five years ago. Pity and urgency had made him spare him, but if he could have known what the man would become he'd have killed him there and then. Following Ulfric's death, Ralof had declared himself Jarl of Windhelm. "Don't blame yourself for it," Octavian said softly. "I was at Helgen, too. There was nothing you could've done."  
"But there was. All I had to do was kill him. He was right there. And I let him push past me."  
"Don't blame yourself for it," Octavian said.  
"But it was my fault. This war would have been long over, if I hadn't spared him. By the Eight, if only I could go back to that day. I'd kill him without a second thought?"  
"Why did you spare him?" Quintus Vane asked. He never did understand subtlety.

"He was my neighbour. We both lived in Riverwood before the war, and in a village that small everyone knew everyone, and when I was young there weren't that many children around to play with. He was one of my closest friends - we'd hunted together. We had our first mead together," he spat on the sand. "He wished me luck as I marched off on my first day as a member of the legion."  
"I'm sorry," Quintus said.

Hadvar watched the mountain ridges, his eyes distant. "No worries, captain – the war effected everyone. I heard that even families were ripped apart by their differing views – I'm thankful that my mother and father stayed true to the legion while I was away. Hold on... what's that?" He'd spotted something on the ridge.

"Sir, up there!" he said urgently and pointed a finger up at the mountainside ahead of them. Octavian shielded his eyes and looked. Standing on the ridge, in front of the glaring desert sun, was the dark outline of a horseman. He waved, then chucked something down at them. The head of an Imperial scout.  
"That bastard," Hadvar snarled. "Oblivion take you! Stormcloak traitor!"  
The figure just waved again, then rode away.

"Do we give chase, sir?" Quintus asked.  
"No, no, let him go." Octavian said. Hadvar gave him a hard look.  
"That's the man we need. The general doesn't give a damn about the rest of them."  
"How do you know that's even Ralof?" Octavian said.  
"Oh, I know it's him." He gritted his teeth. "Let's just ride him down."  
"He's got too much of a headstart. We'd never catch him," Quintus Vane said.  
"I'll catch him," Hadvar said and swung himself up onto the back of his horse. Octavian grabbed the reins.

"Are you mad? That's exactly what he wants you to do - have you ever seen a more obvious set-up for an ambush? Look, up there," he pointed up to the ridge on their right, where a Stormcloak bowman was just about visible behind a desert rock. He crept back behind it when their heads turned. "We stay on the road until they're forced to attack us. Unless you have a deathwish."  
"Sorry, sir," Hadvar said.  
Octavian's face softened. "We'll get him, don't worry, old friend. But we'll get him with patience. We can't allow him to fight this battle on his own terms. Because if we do, we'll lose."

So they marched at a leisurely pace through the Dragontails for the rest of the day. Stormcloak scouts shadowed them on either side the whole way, moving between rocks as quick as shadows and disappearing as quickly as they appeared. "They're too swift to be Nord scouts. They must be Forsworn. Why in Oblivion would Madanach ally himself with the Stormcloaks?" Octavian muttered.  
Quintus spoke. "Well, they're both exiles in their own lands now. Common purpose, maybe? Perhaps Ralof has offered them their own province if they help him regain Skyrim? The Forsworn would fight for anyone with that offer in the balance."  
Octavian nodded. "That could be it. Very good, captain."

"Gods, if only Tullius was less rigid. If he would only grant the Forsworn their demands, they could've been our eyes, not theirs. What difference does it make to him if Markarth is ruled by Forsworn or Nord? They'd both be a part of the Empire," Quintus said.  
"Because if the Forsworn gained control of the Reach, thousands of Nords would be put to the sword. Children and all. I like to think Tullius has more honour than that, though sometimes its hard to see it," Octavian replied, his expression dark.  
"Bit of history there?" the captain from Cyrodiil asked.  
"You could say that," Octavian replied. "He's a hard man. Hard and unyielding. And as unmoving as High Hrothgar when he's made up his mind about something."  
"Is that why we're out here?" Quintus asked.  
"Yes. Tullius wants to see Ralof dead, so we must do it."  
"The old man is crazy."  
"The old man is desperate," Octavian said.  
"Why would he send Hadvar on such a mission, though? Surely he knows about the history between those two?"  
"Actually, I requested Hadvar's presence personally. He may be a little impulsive, but he's one of the best captains the fourth legion's got – and gods know we need every advantage we can get here."


	3. Chapter 3

Along their route they found the heads of at least twelve more Imperial scouts, and each time they saw Ralof on the ridges, just out of bow range, waving. Each time, the legion gritted it's teeth, bit it's tongue and kept moving. Soon the sun was beginning to set; they had made it at least two miles into the mountains, and Octavian didn't want to tire his men, so he shouted for the halt. "That's quite enough for today, boys. We need to be fighting fit tomorrow. We'll set up camp in this clearing," he ordered, riding his horse down the column, repeating the order so everyone knew. Relieved groans followed him as he rode, and men unfurled tent materials from their packs.

Before it was fully dark, the clearing was filled with rows of squared legion tents, each bearing the red dragon of Cyrodiil. The officer tents were in the centre, red and twice the size of the normal tents. They had been pegged in the middle of the camp, surrounded by sentry fires, to keep the officers are safe as possible from the chance of Forsworn assassins creeping in under cover of dark. In the legate's tent, gold and bigger than all the rest, Octavian and his two captains shared supper. Outside, they could hear the typical sounds of an Empire camp as it settled down: sounds of men beating the sand off their leathers, sharpening and testing swords, and chattering quietly around their campfires as they shared drink and stories.

Octavian broke apart a piece of bread.  
"What's the plan for tomorrow then, Legate?" Hadvar asked as he sipped some honeyed mead.  
"We keep marching. There is a plateau not far from here, roughly half a mile wide in all. Should take us half the day to get there." He took a bite. "No doubt the Forsworn scouts will know about it, too. If we can meet the Stormcloaks on that plateau, we'll slaughter them. But, unless Ralof is a _much _worse tactician than I think he is, he won't let us get that far."  
"No, he won't," Hadvar confirmed.

"So, we'll march in full war equipment tomorrow. We'll tell the men to be ready for action. They'll try to ambush us on our way there, but we'll be ready for them." He took a bite. "I admit, it's far from foolproof, but Tullius has hardly left me much of a choice. It's the best chance we're going to get at winning this battle."  
"That sounds good enough for me," Quintus concurred.  
"Good. In the morning, You'll command the left flank and Hadvar will command the right. I'll take the centre."

Hadvar spoke. "Ralof is more intelligent than that, sir."  
Octavian chuckled. "Well, if you have a better plan, captain, I'd be happy to hear it."  
"I don't. But I'm saying we shouldn't discard him so easily. There's a reason he's managed to survive this long, and with Madanach at his back? The man who broke out of Cidhna Mine and fought his way clear of Markarth with but a handful of prisoners?"

Octavian put down his bread. His brow was furrowed. "This is true." Suddenly, he looked at Hadvar with a strange expression on his face. "Hadvar, what would you do if you were a Stormcloak?"  
"Sir?"  
"How would you fight an Imperial column?"  
"I know what I'd do sir..." Quintus said, now looking troubled. "I'd wait for them to make camp for the night."  
The men were on their feet quickly. "Exactly," Octavian said.  
Hadvar grimaced. "That means..."

"Go. Wake the troops. Quickly," Octavian told Hadvar. He saluted and left, shouting. Quintus retrieved Octavian's officer armour and helped him into it. His Legate looked even more fearsome in his steel-plated legion armour, helmet closed and face hidden. The blood red plume on its top stood out starkly from the steel-grey, and would identify him as the army's commander on the field of battle. Octavian nodded briskly and headed outside. Quintus followed him.

It wasn't long before the Legion army was fully suited up and ready for battle. And not a moment too soon.


	4. Chapter 4

"I see them!" A legionary shouted. Quintus looked up the mountainside and his stomach turned to lead.

The Stormcloaks were surging down the slope, kicking up dust. Only their outlines were visible, a great rippling mass of shadow tumbling towards them like an avalanche. The Stormcloaks were a horde. Their archers fired off a few shots, and they thudded into Imperial shields and ripped through the leather tents. Their men were soon too close to the Imperial lines to risk it, so the archers drew vicious iron shortswords and joined the back of the charge.

The Empire archers loosed a few rounds into the huge Nords. Some fell, but a frightening number just gritted their teeth and kept coming. The Nords were howling the name of the fallen king, and their stolen god, Talos, and in the shimmering haze of the night, with their horned helms and heavy axes, they looked like Daedra. Quintus steeled his heart.

"Ulfric! Ulfric! Ulfric!" the Stormcloaks shouted. Quintus heard sparse shouts of "For Madanach!" and "For the Reach!" The only unified shout was of "death to the Empire!" and it ricocheted off the sandy mountains around them, echoing across Hammerfell and burrowing into the hearts of the Empire men. That scared Quintus more than anything.

_We shouldn't even be fighting them,_ he thought. _They are blood of Atmora as much as we are. We should be united, building our strength to fight the Thalmor. _That was why Quintus hated Ulfric so much. He was too hasty. He wanted vengeance against the Thalmor here and now, but everyone knew it simply wasn't possible. What the Empire needed to do was unite itself and build its strength, and Ulfric had doomed them all. Because of Ulfric, two kingdoms of men weakened themselves while the Aldmeri Dominion grew stronger. The Aldmeri Dominion were the only true victors of the Civil War.

The Nords were close now, so the archers fell back between the legionaries, away from the oncoming melee. Quintus fought down the fear in his gut. He had an example to set.

"Lock shields!" he shouted, and the Imperials locked their shields together, ready to meet Nord axes with Imperial blades.

Quintus turned his fear into strength. _Kill or be killed,_ he thought. _I've done this a hundred times before in the snows of Skyrim. The desert is no different._ He countered the charge of the first Nord to reach him by hitting him back with his shield. He stabbed his shortsword under the rim and up through his flimsy fur armour and deep into his belly. His fur turned red as blood and guts were suddenly released. The rebel doubled over and he thrust the blade through the back of his neck. _A clean death,_ Quintus thought. _They deserve that much. It's not their fault they fell for Ulfric's honeyed words._

A second man came at him, an Imperial, which saddened his heart. He locked shields with him, and the rebel snarled into his face and Quintus snarled back, gripped by the adrenaline of battle. _Kill or be killed, _he thought, and thrust his blade up under the ribs and into the Stormcloak's heart. That was what he got for betraying his homeland.

Legate Octavian was on the front line too, blood-red helmet plume visible all across the battlefield, inspiring the men to fight harder. His shortsword rose and stabbed down over and over, splattering rebel blood over his ornate officer armour.

A particularly vicious Nord charged forward, naked above the waist, with braids in his hair and howling _Talos!_ The Legate rammed the rim of his shield into the rebel's gut, doubling him over, then brought his sword around for the final blow... but the Nord dodged away, quick as a sabre cat, and wheeled around with his axe. It cut deep into the Legate's arm with a bone-snapping _crunch_ and he screamed.

The Nord tried to pull back, to strike again and finish him, but the axe was wedged. He spat and cursed. Thinking quickly, Octavian drove his helmet into the Nord's face. His nose was crushed and he doubled back, abandoning his axe, and the Legate, cold and professional, stabbed his sword through the rebel's chest, then swung it low to cleave his legs out from under him; he fell like a piece of timber.

Men hurried to Octavian and they dragged him back from the front line – legionaries behind quickly came forward and reformed the shieldwall, locking the Nords out behind a fortress of flesh and wooden shields.

A Legate's helmet wouldn't be their trophy today.

Quintus fought harder when he saw his Legate go down, cutting and stabbing his way through the uncivilised opponents, but the Nords were howling their victory now. They crashed against the Imperial line in their blue furs like the Sea of Ghosts against the northern cliffs. Quintus grimaced as he cleaved through the rebels. Then, faster than he could blink, he was down.

Boots crunched in sand around his head and pain shot up his leg. _What happened?_ He covered his head with his arms, as the feet of Stormcloak soldiers stamped and kicked. When he dared open his eyes, he saw that the Empire's lines were being pushed back. He heard the wooping howls of Reachmen and rebels alike, screaming their gods, and their kings, and their vengeance. _Gods help me_. He tried lying as still as he could. Maybe they would think he was dead, and leave him alone.

No. A rugged hand gripped his collar and dragged him to his feet. A towering Nord stood before him, his beard long, and tied in warrior braids like his wild hair. He sniggered. "Look, got us an officer!"

Somehow in the maelstrom, Quintus had lost his shield so he braced his pitiful shortsword tight and took a defensive stance. "Oooh, he wants to fight, look!" The men laughed savagely.

The large Nord swung his axe suddenly, and it clipped Quintus's chin. Quin blinked tears from his eyes as they laughed again. The Stormcloak lashed out, grinning, but this time Quintus spun away from it. The Nord swung his left fist at him, but Quin stumbled backwards, away.  
"Hold still, damn you!"

The rebel swung his axe again, and this time Quin hit it away with the back of his metal gauntlet and stabbed forward. The Nord was too slow, and it nicked the side of his ribs. He yowled like a beast.  
"Oh, you're dead now, Empire-man."  
He asked for a torch to be brought to him. A meek Forsworn man gave it him with a devilish smile. Quin noticed they all shared it.

"No, no!" Quintus shouted.

The Forsworn man smiled wider at his reaction. "This is how we Forsworn execute people, Imperial."

They held him down as they doused him in oil. Quin was screaming. They howled with laughter, like wolves.

"Goodbye, Imperial."

A horseman knocked the Nord and the Reachman down.

"Stop! Enough! In the name of Lord Cirroc of the City of Dragonstar! Enough!"

Riders drew up before them, dark skinned Redguards wearing light flowing crimson robes and crimson scarves pulled up over their faces that left only their eyes visible.


	5. Chapter 5

"Stop! Enough! In the name of Lord Cirroc of the City of Dragonstar! Enough!"

Riders drew up before them, dark skinned Redguards wearing light flowing crimson robes and crimson scarves pulled up over their faces that left only their eyes visible.

The only armour they wore was a light quilted cotton jacket, emblazoned on the front with the gold dragon of Dragonstar, with a crown above it's head showing the riders' allegiance in the ever-ongoing political war in Hammerfell between the conservative Crowns and progressive Forebears. These riders eyed both sides with blatant, fierce hate.

Both armies stopped fighting as Redguard horsemen surrounded them. Their leader, a man on a white stallion and wearing golden desert robes embroidered with patterns of swirling sandstorms and rolling dunes had been the one who shouted. He spoke now.

"Who are the commanders here? Come forward. Now!"

Quintus stepped forward. Hadvar emerged from the rabble with a small handful of Imperial legionaries, covered head to foot in blood and nursing wounds. Octavian was brought forward by two men under each of his arms; since Quin had last seen him, he'd sustained an injury to his calf too. The battle had really been going against the Imperials; they were lucky the men of Hammerfell intervened when they did.

From the other side of the clearing the Redguards had made Ralof came forward, wiping blood from his mouth. Hadvar snarled at him and he spat back.  
"Where is Madanach?" Octavian asked him.  
"Caught an Imperial blade in the throat," he growled. "His son is still in the Reach." He turned to the Redguard. "I hope you have a good reason for ruining my victory, Redguard," he said.  
The Redguard ignored him. "Do you know whose lands you now stand on, lords?" The threatening undertone was as sharp as the scimitar at his belt. He didn't wait for a reply. "These are the lands of the Lord of Dragonstar."  
"What is your point?" Octavian asked sharply.

"The Lord of Dragonstar kills trespassers, Imperial."

"Tresspassers? These are the enemies of the Empire, sir, and we are at war. We have a right to pursue them in the name of the Emperor. Besides, we've done your lord a favour today Redguard; if we hadn't been here, these rebels would be loose in his lands right now," Octavian said.

The Redguard waved his hand dismissively. "The Lord of Dragonstar cares nothing for your war. What he sees here is two Empire armies on Redguard land."  
Ralof and Hadvar bristled at the same time.  
"You dare call the sons of Skyrim men of the Empire!" Ralof snarled.  
"You dare call these savages men of the Empire!" Hadvar snapped.  
They shared a hateful look.

"Like I said, two Empire armies on Redguard land, without my lord's permission," the Redguard continued. "He doesn't like that. He sees that as a threat from your Emperor-"  
"He's not my Emperor," Ralof said, staring at the horseman.  
"And not many men threaten a Crown and live to tell of it," the Redguard finished.

Octavian spoke up: "Are you mad? We were simply pursuing the interests of the Empire. We have no quarrel with your lord."  
The Redguard circled Octavian on his horse. His scimitar jangled threateningly in its sheath.  
"So, you admit that it was within the interests of your Emperor that you entered Hammerfell?"

The tension was mounting, and now everyone stared at the leaders of the Atmoran armies, waiting to see what would be said next. Quintus's hand was tight around his shortsword's handle, ready to meet any trouble with cold steel. Sweat dripped down the Legate's face.

"You twist the Imperial's words, Redguard," Ralof said. Hadvar stared at him. Ralof shrugged. "As much as I hate you Imperials, it seems we would have more to gain here standing together than apart."

There was silence for a long, aching moment.

"Agreed," Quintus Vane eventually said. Octavian nodded curtly. The Redguard rounded on them, his riders coming forward with him.

"Oh, so it _is_ a single, united Empire army that has encroached on my lord's lands?"  
The others protested but the Redguard held up a hand. "This is a very significant challenge indeed. How would it look if my lord let such an insult slide?"

An arrow fired from the Imperial ranks hit the Redguard officer in the neck and he fell from his horse.


	6. Chapter 6

"Who released that arrow? Who the fuck released that arrow?" Octavian was shouting. Ralof was brandishing a vicious war-axe and snarling, and Hadvar was rallying his small group of blood-soaked legionaries, this time forming a line _beside_ the Stormcloak rebels.

"Look out legate!" Quintus shouted and darted forward to tackle Octavian out of the way, but he was too late.  
The legate was still looking at his ranks, trying to find the firer of the arrow, and a Redguard horseman, quick as an Alik'r scorpion, swept his scimitar down in a wide arc and hit him with a sickening slice. Legionaries roared and chaos engulfed the three armies.

With a rising shout of anger, the Redguard cavalry ploughed into the unstructured mass, some with scimitars swinging, some skewering men on thin spears.

Quintus had lost sight of the others, and fought to regain control of his men. He grabbed a man; a legionary he recognised as Vellius. "Where in Oblivion are you going? Stand and fight! Form rank!"  
Vellius opened his mouth to respond but the words never came; the tip of a spear burst through Vellius's chest, fast reddening his leather uniform and spilling blood on the sand. The rider who had stabbed him reared up on his horse, and Quintus raised his shield instinctively.

_The desert isn't like Skyrim at all,_ he thought. _A hundred battles against the Stormcloaks didn't prepare me for this._

He felt his blade sink into flesh and warm, slick blood pour over his hand, then the huge weight of the horse came down on him.

His sword was wedged in the dead horse, so he abandoned it and crawled away. The sand was red and saturated with blood, so much that it stuck to his hands. The Redguard rider's legs were trapped beneath his mount, broken judging by the agony on his face. He grabbed Quintus's boot.  
"Help me," he pleaded. Quintus lashed out with his foot and caught him square in the nose, crushing it. He screamed in pain, then wept as Quintus wrenched the spear from his hands.

He thrust it down through the man's neck; he gurgled and fell still.

He looked around himself; The cavalry were running men down all around him, Stormcloak and rebel alike. If the battle before had been tough, this was a massacre. He saw perhaps a dozen Redguard riders go down, if that, and the combined Atmoran armies were being quickly wiped out, broken into small pockets and then destroyed individually.

Quintus remembered something then, something from his days as a recruit, so many years ago.

They were some of the hardest days of his life. "A spear is a very effective weapon against cavalry," Legate Octavian had told them in the courtyard of Castle Dour. "So you must learn how to form a schiltron, a ring of spearmen."

Sometimes he would even charge horses at the recruits, who would have to demonstate the proper formation, with a wooden staff as a weapon. If a man didn't get it right, the Imperial Cavalry were given leave to ride over the man.

One of the recruits had died that way, but the legate had had no regrets. "Now maybe that'll make the rest of you try harder!" he had shouted. Quintus had feared those cavalry more than anything in the world, but now he found himself wishing that the heavy cavalry were there with them on the battlefield on their white mounts and donning shining gold armour. But they had been outfitted for mountain warfare, so they were all on foot, all armed with a shield and a pitiful shortsword. Except him.

"Listen to me! Listen to me! Take their spears! Remember the cavalry drills back in Solitude? Let's use that now. Form up on me!"  
Some men looked at him with blank faces, some even with outright hate. "You're not a legate," they snarled, or "I'll take no orders from an Imperial." A small number followed his orders and took up spears. They formed a tight ring of spearmen on him. The effect was instananeous.

The cavalry hit their ring and stopped dead as steel tips drove feet deep into the rider's mounts. Some came flying over the top, landing in the circle to be swiftly finished by those in the middle. Most just fell down and were crushed beneath their mounts. Men, Imperial, Forsworn, Nord alike, cheered defiantly.

As more men noticed what they were doing they began to fight their way towards the ring. Many were ridden down as they tried, but a few dozen made it, and most of them had found themselves a spear.

Quintus watched the last pocket of men fighting their way towards them, a scrambled mix of Forsworn, Imperial and Stormcloak alike. At the centre, Hadvar and Ralof fought back to back, each shouting seperate commands and trying to out-do the other, but Quintus smiled despite himself.

"There, men! Let's save the captain!" Quintus shouted.  
"For the Jarl!" A few shouted back defiantly, but his spearwall all moved under his comand anyway, and they pushed the remaining horsemen off the exhausted soldiers.  
"Good call, Quin - the spears," Hadvar said. Quintus smiled grimly.  
"Well, someone had to remember the lesson that recruit died for."

The Redguard cavalry had formed a line a couple dozen feet from them, and watched them warily. Some men clattered their shields and weapons, jeering, but Quintus silenced them. He noticed that two of their men were having a heated argument, and he remembered that they had lost their commander too. Eventually one spurred his horse toward them, flanked by two other riders.

"I am Atah, high warrior of Dragonstar and commander of my men following the death of Ajacks. I would like to talk." He and his men had left their scimitars behind, presumably to show they meant no harm. "Who is leader amongst you?"

"He is," Ralof said, pointing at Quintus. Hadvar nodded.

"We all are. Come forward with me," he told them as he stepped out of the line and removed his helmet. The Redguard dropped his face-scarf and the two men looked at each other in the light of the moon.

"Hail, lords. Your men have fought well. We have a proposition for you."  
"What is it?" Quintus asked.  
"You three will come with us, to be publicly executed in Dragonstar at Lord Cirroc of Dragonstar's request, and your men can go free. Or," he cast his eyes over the men behind them. "You can go free, but your men will die."

Quintus felt the warm night wind and noticed the agonising burn in his muscles for the first time. The wind hit the sweat on his scalp and made him shiver despite himself.

Looking around at his men, he realised how few he really had – probably half a hundred in all. He wondered if they felt it too. He realised that that was how it felt to be alive, and decided he couldn't take that away from so many, even if it meant losing it himself.

The faces of his men watched him expectantly, not knowing if they were going to live or die. They held their spears braced, most of the dripping with blood. Probably the blood of their old friends, he realised with an odd feeling in his stomach. Spears that he had ordered them to take. If he had bought them their lives, did that mean he could sell them too?

He looked over the Redguard horsemen, with their spears and scimitars. They would have no chance if they charged, Quintus thought, but dismounted...

His men had abandoned their shortswords and shields, and wouldn't reach them in time if the Redguards attacked. Everyone knew that Redguards were the best warriors in Tamriel, trained from the age of six to kill people and kill quick. When he looked over the hard-faced riders, he had no doubt they'd be able to make good on their threats. _Well then,_ Quintus decided, _I have no choice._

"Time to decide, Imperial," Atah said.  
"Let my men go. I'll come with you," Quintus said.  
Hadvar stepped forward. "I will, too." Quintus gave him a hard stare, but Ralof stepped forward too, and Quin knew there would be no arguing them out of it.  
The Redguard looked quite shocked. "An honourable choice, lords. I'm shocked."  
"Yeah, yeah," Ralof said, "Just bind our wrists."


End file.
